


To sleep, perchance to dream

by Ellie5192



Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: F/M, pre-ship fluffiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie5192/pseuds/Ellie5192
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sharon Raydor is sleeping in his bed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I found this prompt on the Mary Fic Fest 2014 page. It wasn’t claimed at the time, and I found it after submission/claiming/writing/publishing was over. I reached out to see what was happening with the fic fest and if anybody minded if I stole one posthumously; I didn’t hear back, so have taken the liberty of writing and posting anyway. Sorry if that ruffles anybody’s feathers.  
> “Prompt 179: Andy is surprised to find Sharon asleep in his bed after a long day at work”  
> Pre-ship/ship(ish) fluffiness. One-shot.

**To sleep, perchance to dream**

Throwing his tie over the back of the couch with a long sigh, Andy shrugs out of his jacket, rolling his neck with the motion. It’s the 24 hour catch-a-serial-killer type days that truly remind him he’s not twenty-five anymore. He’s not even forty-five. Or fifty-five. Good lord.

With that thought he toes out of his shoes, right there in the living room. His obsessive compulsive need to keep it neat can wait until tomorrow, just this once. He looks around the room, bleary eyed and barely conscious, so very glad that Sykes – fresh faced and rested after being sent home – had driven him home. He’s sure he wouldn’t have made it in one piece in LA traffic if he’d had to get himself here.

Andy scrubs his hands over his face and then, the urge overtaking him, collects his things anyway and starts walking to his room. The lights are off, but it’s almost sunrise (a bleak reminder of how long it’s been since he slept) so the grey glow of dawn filters through the small two-bedroom house just enough that he can see. The place had seemed too big when he’d first bought it, just little old him; now Nicole frequently visits with the boys, and it’s just the right size. And there’s a spare room with a queen bed, if they ever need to have sleep-overs further down the road. If his relationship with his family ever gets good enough that he’s trusted for overnight visits. The room isn’t set up yet, but the furniture is on it’s way, on piece at a time. It will happen.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there on this particular day. For now, sleep is on the agenda.

He opens his bedroom door with his foot, his jacket and tie in one hand, shoes in the other, and then stops. He is momentarily startled. The room is dark – it’s the first thing he notices; even if the world is not yet awake, his curtains are drawn, and they are blackout curtains so the room is almost pitch black to his unadjusted eyes.

And the bed is occupied.

Not that he minds his bed being occupied, for sure, it is wonderful. But this is… it’s not… this is unexpected. He approaches softly, just close enough that he’s standing by the end of the bed, peering at the face that’s partially covered by the doona.

It nearly knocks him on his arse to identify the culprit. As if the hair poking out of the covers wasn’t clue enough.

Sharon Raydor is sleeping in his bed.

He just barely stops himself from laughing.

He had sent her home hours ago – she’d been on first watch with Provenza, then he and Tao had taken over, then Sykes and Sanchez had come in to relieve everybody, though most of those shifts had overlapped and they were all collapsing under the weight of a never-ending manhunt. (All except Sykes; three hours at home sleeping and she was the Energiser bunny again, it was disconcerting).

Sharon more than most had been exhausted, on her twentieth hour awake; she had blatantly refused to leave with Provenza. She had ended up being there until Sanchez all but wrestled her to the elevator bank and shoved her inside. Andy told her to go home and sleep, and they would call her in when needed. Only half an hour later – she was still barely awake and getting out of her work suit when he called – the FBI had taken the case, connecting it to several murders in… Utah… or Arizona… somewhere. Might have been both. It didn’t matter. The whole mess was not their problem anymore. They had been relieved, and Sharon had sighed, and then he had said into the phone with a smile _get some sleep_ , and she had hummed her agreement.

And here she is. Sleeping in his bed.

When he told her to get some sleep, he had forgotten that would mean she’d be at his place.

Her ceiling was being repaired today due to a leak in the air conditioning unit on the condo roof. She’d bemoaned the fact the repairs would undoubtedly be loud and smelly; exactly the conditions that would prevent sleep anywhere on the top floor of her building. So he had told her to go to his place – _use the spare key you’ve got_ – and he would tip-toe when he got home. He had forgotten the spare room was not set up; that the mattress was still up against the wall, awaiting a new base. It didn’t occur to him that she’d make herself _right_ at home.

He sighs again, silently.

Looking at the things in his hands he puts them on the chair in the corner, being very gentle so as not to rustle the fabric too loudly. He spares a glance at the bed. Not a peep. He can hear her breathing though; not so much a snore as just very deep and obviously exhausted. She is out cold. It’s kind of adorable. He indulges himself and watches her for a moment – just the fuzz of her hair and tiny movement of blankets with her breathe; in and out. He shakes himself out of it.

Tip-toeing into his bathroom, Andy closes the door gently, his hand against the jam to guide it silently closed. Picking up his old teeshirt and long pyjama pants from the tiled floor, he sniffs them once, and decides that despite them being abandoned so gracelessly some time yesterday, they are acceptable clothes to pass out in. Mentally he calculates how much effort it requires to flip down the spare mattress and make the bed with sheets and blankets and finding the spare pillows and matching pillowcases and… now he understands why Sharon chose his bed instead.

He sighs again, and presses his palm to the back of his neck, rolling it again. It’s just that kind of day. He can feel the tension headache building the longer he stands; he needs sleep. Her undoes his belt buckle and lets his pants drop to the floor; slides out of his shirt and undershirt, and then tosses them all on top of the laundry hamper to be tomorrow’s problem. He gets into the pyjamas, leaving on his socks for good measure. Looking at himself in the mirror, he looks every bit his age today; tired and drawn, and who has time for vanity when he’s literally so tired his head hurts.

There’s just nothing else for it.

He opens the bathroom door again and walks out. Just as he left her, Sharon is tucked on her side facing away from him, neatly taking up just one half of the queen bed. She even graciously left him enough doona to work with; not that he’s cold, in fact with his long pyjama pants and socks he’s just fine, but he likes sleeping under something heavy.

It feels very comforting to find himself standing here, even if she is asleep and therefore oblivious. He rolls his eyes at himself; he can ignore his stupid crush for the fifteen seconds it will take him to fall unconscious, surely.

Approaching the bed cautiously, he pulls back the cover on his side and gingerly – awkwardly, really, because how many years has it been since he snuck back into his own bed – he slides in next to her, careful not to rock the mattress too much or shuffle around for a comfortable position.

The moment he is horizontal he can’t help but sigh in relief. His entire back releases its tension vertebra by vertebra; his head rejoices at the pillow beneath it. Immediately, he feels the tug of sleep. He spares a glance next to him, but she hasn’t moved – she is still on her side facing away from him, her hair on the pillow, her breath deep and even.

He reaches out one finger to touch a stray lock of hair, but stops; pulls back. He’s already breaking every single rule in the book by getting in this bed – no need to make her feel like they actually did anything wrong, and the last thing he wants to do is wake her. They really do deserve their rest. After all, they’re both adults – very sleepy adults with only one quiet bed to share, and anyway it’s a bed big enough for two. What’s some sleeping among friends.

The shift of the doona when he moves his arm shows him just a sliver of the collar of what she’s wearing, which turns out to be his academy teeshirt; he only has one teeshit in that shade of blue, and he can’t help but grin at the thought that at some point today (or last night, depending on how people choose to classify 3am these days) Sharon went snooping through his wardrobe and is now wearing his clothes. He briefly – dangerously - ponders if she also found some pants in there, and then mentally slaps himself. Of course she did; she wouldn’t be in his bed half naked, that’s only in his dreams.

Still, he wonders how she did it; she was too tired to even consider any option besides _pass out in Andy’s bed_ , so did she just grab the easiest things she could find? Or was it more calculated, despite the fatigue – the academy teeshirt because they both attended and it’s neutral; plain grey track pants because the draw string will keep them respectably above her hip bones when they wake up. Just over her head he can spot her watch and earrings on his side table; she cared enough to take off her jewellery. She doesn’t seem the kind to not be deliberate. He decides that she was very specific in her choices, including falling asleep on one side of the bed (her side of the bed?).

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at himself. He really is getting desperate and pathetic.

Not wanting to rock the mattress too much and disturb Sharon, he relaxes as he is; it’s not his favourite, sleeping flat on his back, but he really is too tired for it to matter. Already, despite his tumultuous emotions, he is falling into dreamless sleep.

His last thought, before he is gone completely, is that he would love for Sharon to be there when he wakes up. Would love to see her fresh from sleep and bleary eyed – hair mussed and throat croaky. Intimate, maybe, and completely inappropriate, but he can’t help himself. He’s becoming more and more infatuated by the day, but so help him he will take full advantage of this opportunity while he can. It’s only fair, given his dreams are apparently becoming reality, moment by moment.

After all, it’s not every day he can share a bed with a beautiful woman. Might as well make the most of it. 


	2. Ay, there's the rub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and ye shall receive. A follow-up chapter for all those who requested it. (Obviously this story takes place before season 3.5, when Sharon was still blissfully deluded and just before Rusty was officially hers. Poor dears.) And LilaJ, I didn’t watch Seachange enough to make that connection, so it’s a total accident! (although Max/Laura are adorbs). I also have a headcanon that Andy and Sharon share a love for old Westerns that are always on tv in the middle of the day.

 

**_Aye, there_ ** **_’s the rub_ **

The honk of a car horn just outside the window wakes her. She just barely manages to stop herself from humming and smacking her lips together to wake up; the obnoxious, stretchy, make-weird-grunty-noises kind of wake up that follows a good night’s sleep that wasn’t long enough. The blinds are still drawn; the room still relatively dark for late morning, the red numbers on the alarm clock read 10:28. Not the full eight hours, but in any case she has to be able to get to sleep tonight as well, when she finally gets home.

She hopes Rusty was okay without her – didn’t worry too much – though she warned him she wouldn’t be home. She didn’t mention she would be at Andy’s, but that’s neither here nor there; it was 3am when she headed out of the office, she wasn’t going to call him and wake him over it. And if his alarm hadn’t woken him earlier, then the repairmen hammering on the roof at 8am certainly would have. Hopefully he made it to work okay, with some breakfast if she’s lucky; she hates seeing him take off without eating something. In any case, he’s old enough to go without her for a day and a half; there are plenty of leftovers in the fridge if he gets hungry.

But anyway, she wants to be able to sleep tonight – in her own bed – so she resolves not to fall back asleep now, comfortable though the bed is. Better to starve herself for the sake of her body clock. She also has to get into the office today and oversee any further paperwork on the case transfer to federal jurisdiction. It’s perhaps a bit micro-managerial, and it’s not like Taylor told her to come in after all the hours they worked the last two days, but she is the boss. A quick stop at the office can hardly be called _working_ , surely.

Even without rolling over she can tell she’s not alone in bed. Behind her, Andy’s heavy breathing borders on a snore. When she turns, sure enough, there he is flat on his back, his mouth slightly hanging open; he looks like he passed out where he flopped on the bed, not caring about anything except sleeping. One of his legs is folded out of the blankets, his arm over his stomach.

She thinks he looks positively adorable.

It feels very strange to be waking up in his bed, she won’t deny. It had seemed the reasonable thing to do last night, when the prospect of staying awake had seemed daunting and unattainable; when she had looked at the mess of a spare room and just shook her head in silent protest. Now, she feels awkward and out of place. They are not _together_ ; she’s not sure what they are, but sharing a bed seems far more intimate than just friendship, even if they are both fully clothed. Colleagues don’t share beds; it’s just not done.

She takes a moment to enjoy this moment. It has been a long time since she woke up innocently next to a man; not as long as it’s been since waking up with a casual lover – she was separated, not a saint – but to spend the night and wake up fully dressed, well rested, and comfortable in the same space as her bed mate despite the unease. It’s nice. It’s more than nice.

She silently sighs to herself, closing her eyes for just a moment, still somewhat exhausted but no longer imminently tired.

This entire situation is not normal.

Carefully, so as to not wake Andy, she lifts her covers and rolls gently out of bed, placing the covers back in her absence. She looks at Andy where he’s sleeping. He doesn’t stir or shift at all – it’s no surprise; she was out cold when he got home at whatever ungodly hour he did, and no doubt he’s only been asleep for a short time. She doesn’t want to disturb him any more than necessary.

Picking up her work clothes from the neat pile she left on the floor with her handbag, grabs a hair tie from her purse, and tip-toes to the adjacent bathroom door, mindful of any creaks in the floorboards. She closes the door softly behind her, and then takes stock of the room. His suit is thrown haphazardly on top of the laundry hamper that looks full, but the rest of the room is neat; almost sparse. There is a shampoo and conditioner container on the shower hanger, a half-used soap block underneath them; a single toothbrush and tube of paste in a little holder on the vanity; she sneaks a look in his medicine cabinet for some moisturiser to use, but it’s the usual fare. Shaving cream and razor, a partially empty pill bottle – presumably his blood pressure meds – some Band-Aids and a rolled up bandage. Nothing especially exciting. Nothing she can use to freshen up beyond a splash of water on her face.

She leaves it alone. It’s not her place – as his friend or his boss – to go snooping, and she feels herself blush with embarrassment even as she turns away.

She looks at the shower and immediately decides against it. She doesn’t know if the pipes will squeak and wake him, and anyway she needs to wash her hair and doesn’t have any of her stuff here; she prefers to just shower at home if she can.

She gets out of Andy’s clothes and folds them neatly, leaving them on top of his suit on the hamper. No point even having the conversation when he wakes, though he undoubtedly noticed her wearing them, she’s sure. She gets back into her suit pants and shirt, leaving it untucked and tying her hair into a neat pony with the spare hair tie. She looks at herself in the mirror. Not great, but also not the worst – her makeup has faded, but a quick swipe under each of her eyes fixes the dark smudges, and the rest is passable.

She sighs to her reflection. Who is she trying to impress anyway.

She walks out into the bedroom again to grab her bag and trench coat from the floor next to her side of the bed. Andy snores softly on, and she smiles at him.

She steps out of the room and gently closes the door behind her, and then fishes her phone out of her bag where she threw it there on silent. Probably not the best show of initiative, going radio silent, but she was honestly exhausted. Seeing a text from Taylor she swipes it open and reads, rolling her eyes, the time stamp reading just after 9am.

_Don_ _’t come in today unless you get a call from dispatch. RT_

She doesn’t delude herself that Taylor sent it out of the kindness of his heart; he just wants to balance out the horrendous overtime he has to pay for the latest case. Still, it’s nice to get the actual order to stay home for the day unless expressly needed. She practically skips to the front door – her shoes are waiting next to Andy’s runners, and she’s not sure what the shoe etiquette of his house is, so she just left them there. But then she stops suddenly; remembering. Her apartment is overrun with tradesmen; her little sanctuary not so tranquil, at least until the building manager kicks the workmen out at five. And the place is going to stink of plasterboard and fresh paint.

She sighs then, her arms sagging under the weight of her handbag and coat. She rolls her eyes a little towards the ceiling. Just perfect.

Spinning on the spot, she weighs up her options. She has her car, so it’s not like she’s stuck, but her house is busy and she’s not allowed at work. She could go shopping, but frankly that thought turns her stomach; and besides, her hair still needs a wash; she doesn’t want to be shopping while she feels grubby. She could go see a movie, but there’s nothing on she wants to see – she and Andy saw the only picture she was interested in just last week after a quick bite at a Japanese place they both like. None of the other movies appeal to her this week.

Dropping the handbag and coat on the couch, and flicking off her shoes again on the floor next to it, she proceeds to the kitchen just as a pang of hunger goes through her. Might as well raid his cupboards for some breakfast if she’s bound to stay here, she figures; he’s sure to have something she will eat. Toast even, if nothing else.

Searching through his fridge, she spots her favourite yoghurt and smiles. She was recommending it to him just last week. He must have taken her word and bought it to try. Quickly checking he’s not moving around, she takes a spoon from the drawer and steals three big mouthfuls right from the tub. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

She takes out the bread and makes herself two slices of buttered toast, not caring to find anything else for the moment. She eats it nicely at his small wooden table, checking her emails on her phone as she goes. The battery is nearly dead – serves her right for not charging it over night – but Emily is confirming her break over the holidays (always so prepared, getting her calendar sorted), and Ricky might make it for Christmas which warms her heart. The rest of the emails consist of a new season subscription available for the theatre company, a utilities bill, and a set of rewards updates for Qdoba customers – Rusty had once put down her email for it and now she gets weekly spam, which is just great.

She smiles. All of her children are in her email inbox, in one form or another, and for just a second she feels overwhelmed with love for them. Rusty’s adoption is almost ready to go ahead, and the anticipation that runs through her is thrilling. She still half expects him to pull back, but he had assured her he wanted it, so she takes his word for it.

Pressing the toast crumbs into the tip of her finger and licking them off, she picks up the plate and walks it back to the kitchen, putting it in the half-full still-dirty dishwasher. She sees an iPhone charger on Andy's benchtop and plugs in her phone, effectively ridding herself of her only other distraction, unless she hangs next to it awkwardly at his kitchen bench. She entertains the idea for about half a second and then rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She's not a sullen teenager, she can go five minutes without staring at her phone to avoid the world.

Sharon sighs again, taking a look around as she walks back to the living room.

Andy’s place is neat and relatively sparse, at least in terms of tidying or pottering around. Just to kill time she decides to go back to the kitchen and make tea, and taps her finger in an off-beat rhythm on the counter as she waits for the kettle to boil. She still feels in limbo; not quite domestic, but not uncomfortable either. Though, she figures she really should be. Uncomfortable, that is, even though she’s not. She’s barefoot in her subordinate’s kitchen making tea after sharing his bed, and yet she is totally at ease in her skin, even as disquiet sits in her mind. She doesn’t know what to make of all this.

Once the tea is done she returns to the living room and turns on the television. She mutes it immediately while channel surfing, but Andy doesn't have cable or satellite - he just gets Provenza to record his games for him these days, more content to spend the money on his grandsons - so her selections at 11am on a weekday are frighteningly sparce. To think, Hollywood runs this town and there's not a damn thing on. She settles on a John Wayne film - an older one, pre The Searchers - and allows herself the luxury of having nowhere to be and nothing to do. It's rare enough that she's at a loss.

She curls her feet up onto the couch and sips her tea slowly, letting her mind be at rest. She is so absorbed in _nothing_ that it’s twenty minutes into the next film before she snaps out of it; she immediately recognises it as Willy Wonka - the Gene Wilder version naturally – and chuckles to herself. She hasn’t watched this in about fifteen years; Ricky went through a phase and put the whole family off it for life. Still, she leaves it on for white noise.

Sharon is so relaxed just lounging on his couch that she doesn’t hear Andy walking into the room until he’s rounding the other side and flopping by her feet. She lets out a small squeak of surprise when he lands right against her toes and he raises an amused eyebrow at her, which she ignores.

His hair is all mussed and he’s still in the daggy old clothes he went to bed in; his eyes have black rings and bags, and frankly he looks a bit awful. But it’s – she checks the clock on the stereo – just gone midday, so he can be forgiven for looking terrible. She doesn’t hide that she’s looking at him, but she also doesn’t betray her nerves now that he’s awake. Not just awake, but sitting next to her on the couch, knowing that she’s made herself at home here. Then again, he chose to get in the bed with her; he knows she made herself at home long before she raided his fridge.

He grumbles and swipes his hand over his face, itching the last of sleep out of the corners of his eyes. He looks how she feels, to be truthful.

“Sorry there’s no real food” he rasps, resting his head on the back of the couch and rolling it to look at her. She smiles lightly at him. He grins back, noting the messy pony and unkempt work attire. He thinks it suits her very well.

"It’s no problem. I had toast… and tea” she adds, holding up her now-empty mug.

He nods, satisfied that she’s at least eaten. It doesn’t seem like either of them are going to mention the sleeping arrangements. She almost apologises for it, but doesn’t; she didn’t have much of a choice and she’s not sorry. Likewise, he almost makes a comment about the spare room, but doesn’t want to seem like he’s unhappy with her. Bemused, or downright taken aback, but he didn’t mind sharing last night, and waking to find himself alone had been a surprising disappointment.

“Your place still overrun?” he asks.

She hums and nods, a sour look on her face. “My super told me he would call if the works finished early, but I have a feeling they won’t”

“Any case?”

“No. And Chief Taylor stopped just shy of ordering us to stay home today”

Andy rubs his hands together and theatrically stretches out, throwing his legs up on the coffee table and his arms behind his head. “Not gonna argue with the boss”

She just snorts at him and shakes her head, looking at the screen just in time to see Veruca fall down the egg shoot. Always so satisfying, if Sharon’s allowed to say that.

“You wanna do anything today?” he asks.

She makes a noise, scrunching her nose on one side and bobbing her head. It’s a fairly solid ‘no’, but he finds it adorable that she didn’t just say ‘thanks but next time’. She’s so expressive, and he loves watching it.

“I feel..."

"Gross” he finishes for her. She nods. She’s truly lamenting the lack of change of clothes, or even just her shampoo. At this stage she’d happily use Andy’s two-in-one man blend, but then she doesn’t have her hairdryer here, and god knows what would happen to her mop without containment.

He suddenly hauls himself from the couch and disappears to his room again. She watches him go without thought, curious but not concerned. He returns a moment later with the clothes she slept in, still neatly folded the way she left them, and he passes them to her.

“Go shower and throw these on, it’ll make you feel more human” he says, smirking at her in a way that should feel presumptuous but curiously doesn’t. She rolls her eyes at him, but she’s been busted loitering at his place with no inclination to leave, so she might as well be comfortable while she’s at it. For s brief moment she wonders what she is going to do about her dirty underwear. She could wash them in the sink, but damned if she's going to leave them somewhere to dry again. The thought of getting clean just to put dirty pants back on is equally unappealing. Mentally she resigns herself to going commando until she gets home, which is something she'll be telling nobody.

Half way back to his bathroom she stops and turns. Andy is still watching her walk away. "You sure you don't mind me... hanging around?" she asks, annoyed that she sounds like Rusty with her choice of words.

Andy just grins, a curious little expression on his face that she can't work out.

"There's a fresh toothbrush under the sink" he says, and turns back to the movie. She hesitates for just a second; just long enough for brief thoughts to flick through her mind, fleeting though they are. Without further preamble she continues to the bathroom, mentally cataloguing what ingredients he has in the fridge and whether he'd be up for making pasta for lunch. Lazy days call for carbs, and she has a feeling he wouldn't object.

 


	3. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She spends a solid three minutes standing in front of his bathroom mirror in nothing but her bra and underwear, lost in thought as she asks herself over and over again, what am I doing here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not fully recovered from the official dating status of our couple. The fluffiness inspired me to finish another chapter of this story.
> 
> Also, this soliloquy is starting to lose its metaphorical meaning, but just focus on the 'dreams' bit and we're all good.

**For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,**

She spends a solid three minutes standing in front of his bathroom mirror in nothing but her bra and underwear, lost in thought as she asks herself over and over again,  _what am I doing here_. She knows she should leave; that despite the lovely morning and his easy acceptance of her presence, there is something inherently wrong in staying here with him, accepting his friendly company. That the queasy feeling in her stomach is justified, especially as she looks at herself almost naked in the mirror and knows he will soon see her at her most unguarded, freshly washed and without make-up wearing his house clothes.

She wonders, not for the first time, if it would be this much of a problem if she wasn't attracted to him. She doesn't think it would be. Which in and of itself is a problem.

At the very least she does want to shower, and so she takes her hair out of the pony tail and starts the hot water running, stripping the last of her clothes as it warms up. She spends a moment fiddling with the water levels to get just the right temperature, and then sighs as she steps fully under the spray. The long week feels far away; the tension in her shoulders gives way as she rolls them out and wets her hair. Showers always were her happy place.

Eyeing the two-in-one shampoo in the shower caddy, she picks it up, opens the cap, and smells it. It doesn't smell like him – he wears a very particular aftershave that is much stronger than any of his soap fragrances – but it's not an offending smell. She can use it for herself.

Not wanting to linger, she makes quick work of washing her hair and body, and then steps out of the shower, picking up the towel she pre-emptively placed on the vanity. She avoids looking at herself in the partially fogged mirror, too afraid she will see guilt in her reflection. Leaky ceiling or not – friendship or not – they shouldn't be testing these boundaries, though she can't pinpoint exactly why.

Sharon folds up her work clothes once she's dressed again in Andy's borrowed track pants and tee-shirt. She unceremoniously bundles up her dirty underwear and shoves them between her suit pants and blouse, avoiding them, glad that a bra can go more than one wear; there is no way she would walk out there braless, not if he paid her. Not with where her mind has been.

The bathroom looks devoid of a hair dryer, just as she suspected, and a quick look in the cupboard under the sink yields no results, so with a sigh Sharon scrubs the towel over her hair a couple of times and then leaves it. She'll let it air dry and then comb it later, much as that tends to make her hair flat and lifeless. If she needs to wash it again tomorrow, so be it; it's a small price to pay for feeling human again today.

She has to remind herself again that she's not trying to impress anybody.

When she emerges from the bathroom and walks down the hall, Sharon is surprised to find the lounge empty. A clang of pots tells her that Andy has made his way to the kitchen. She fights the urge to smile when she walks in and sees him standing at the stove wearing a ridiculous barbeque apron. It is fashioned like a SWAT vest, with pockets for cooking utensils and a giant CHEF emblazoned on the front with Velcro. She thinks he looks rather dashing, and he catches her grinning at his outfit. It makes him smile back at her, puffing his chest out a little. He's obviously very proud of his apron, and she can't deny it's very amusing.

There's a small tub of cream on the bench, and some bacon that is obviously for her benefit, so she figures he's going to make a quick carbonara for them, which is exactly what she's been craving since she raided his fridge a few hours earlier. The saucepan on the stove is already coming to the boil and he adds the fettucine while he works at chopping a few rashers of bacon into small bits. A smaller pan rests on a low heat waiting.

"I thought you didn't eat meat?" she asks, walking over to him with her arms crossed and a serene look on her face.

"My doctor said I should start incorporating it into my diet again, after the whole blood pressure thing" he says with a shrug, turning his head quickly to acknowledge her and then continuing his task. "I still tend to avoid it, mostly out of habit. But bacon" he drawls, and moans dramatically. "Bacon cannot be ignored"

She laughs at him and nods. Bacon was always her guilty pleasure food too. It's a struggle not to buy it more often. She has one hip resting against the edge of the bench as she watches the bacon go in the warm pan with some oil to brown it.

"Anything I can do?" she asks.

"Just stand there lookin' pretty" he mumbles. It sounds practiced, or like something he just says for the sake of it. But he must realise exactly who he's talking to just a split second later, because his shoulders stiffen and he turns and looks at her with a sheepish look on his face. She tries not to look too alarmed. Mostly she's amused, because her clean face, wet hair and track pants are hardly glamorous.

"Sorry" he says, shrugging a little.

She can't help but let out a laugh, which breaks the tension nicely. "If that was a compliment, I'll take it"

"Then consider it a compliment" he says, nodding along. She just laughs again and pushes away from the bench. If he won't let her help with the cooking, she might as well make herself useful operating his coffee machine. Like the true food aficionado that he is, it's a fancy barista's espresso machine, with a capsule in the top for fresh beans and a spout for heating the milk. She's owned enough of her own coffee machines over the years – both at home and work –to get the gist of working it without guidance.

She takes two cups from the cupboard, gesturing to him with one.

"Yeah, thanks" he says. She knows how he takes it so she doesn't bother asking.

Side by side they prepare lunch –him the food, her the drink (hoping the caffeine clears the fog of bad sleep). She sniffs the air from behind Andy's shoulder, peering around into the pan; it smells simple and delicious, and he uses fresh herbs that she knows he grows himself. Once the pasta is done he adds that to the sauce and tosses it around while she grabs two bowls down from the cupboard, and a fork and spoon each from the draw. It feels nice to be able to move around each other so seamlessly; she doesn't dwell on it. Andy keeps an ear out, listening to her rustle about, grinning to himself that she's so familiar in his place. He likes it, though he'd never say that. She would only get self-conscious, and he wants her to be comfortable. He's still getting over seeing her fresh-faced and casual.

He scoops enough pasta into her bowl to feed an army, but her stomach rumbles just as she picks it up and they both laugh; it's been a while since breakfast, and bad sleep always makes her hungry.

"Table?" she asks. There's mail and some folded laundry on one half of it, but the seat she occupied at breakfast and another one next to it are free enough for them to use. She won't presume the etiquette of his house. She knows she gets funny about meals being eaten at tables; everyone has their ways.

He looks at the table and scrunches nose a little, and she stifles a grin. "Couch?" she offers instead, and almost laughs when he just nods enthusiastically and walks into the living room instead.

One more question answered, out of so many.

They settle on the couch with their coffees on the table, her legs curled beneath her. He shoves a huge forkful in his mouth and then picks up the remote and starts channel-surfing, trying to find something they'll both like. She takes a much smaller mouthful (she doesn't want to give herself a tummy ache, after all), and flicks her wet hair behind her, trying to break it up a little to let the air get to it faster.

She can't be sure, but she thinks Andy is trying to avoid looking at her too obviously. Or maybe she's just being hypersensitive, since she's trying not to focus on what they're doing.

She laughs when he stops on Dirty Harry; of course he would.

"Classic" he drawls, tossing the remote onto the cushion between them. She rolls her eyes but doesn't object. In no time at all they have finished their pasta and their coffee, and she takes their dishes to the kitchen, despite his  _just leave them_. She doesn't mind eating on the couch, she can even handle sitting around with wet hair and no undies on, but she absolutely cannot abide having dishes lying about on the coffee table. She stacks the dishwasher, including the pans from the stove; fastidiously ignores his long-suffering  _seriously, Sharon, I'll get them later_  while she rearranges some stubborn mugs on the top shelf. She almost wants to call him in for a lesson on how to properly stack the thing, but reminds herself that it's his house, it's his dishwasher, and if he wants to waste water with poor space management it's not her business.

"Where's your soap stuff?" she calls back instead. She can practically hear him roll his eyes at her, but a moment later he calls back that it's all stored under the sink. Sure enough, she pulls out an all-in-one dishwashing tablet from the bulk box, presses the 'heavy' wash option to account for the pans, and then snaps the dishwasher shut with her hip. It whirs to life and she smiles.

She walks back into the lounge with a smug look on her face, and he gives her a bland look right back.

"Happy now?" he asks.

"Yes"

He rolls his eyes and pats the seat next to him that she was occupying before. Her smile turns soft, and she obliges him and sits down again, not close enough to touch, but close. Familiar. He hands her the remote, expecting she might want to change it, but she just places it on the couch arm next to her and settles deeper into the cushions. If he's surprised by that he tries not to show it. It's disorienting to see her so relaxed. The team have been to her place after hours a few times – he knows she can let her hair down, so to speak – but she looks like she's trying very hard to just chill out and enjoy the day. He didn't expect that at all.

She catches him staring and he blinks.

"What?" she asks softly.

"Popcorn?"

It's the first thought out of his mouth, and luckily it's at least mildly relevant to their day's activities. She looks a bit startled by the question, her mouth opening and closing fractionally, her face going hilariously blank.

"Maybe later" she replies. "Lunch was…-" She waves her arm around a bit before patting her stomach comically. He nods and smiles, agreeing with her. They're still full.

"Yeah. Sure. Later – no problem"

She gives him a look as he turns back to the screen with a dopy smile – something akin to asking  _what on earth is wrong with you? Are you ill?_ He tries not to notice, and mostly can't see past his own mortification and his efforts to remain calm and friendly. They've been doing so well, considering they slept in the same bed last night. The last thing he wants is to drive her back to her smelly, unfinished apartment because he got all  _weird._

With one last side-eye, Sharon looks back at the screen and decides to let it go. She's perfectly content here, and sees no reason to be otherwise. They're both still tired, and she's grateful for the offer of friendly company today, even if it's a bit of an inconvenience not going home. It's easier than she thought it would be to rid her mind of any awkwardness and just enjoy the film; she hasn't watched it in years, and anyway, she's got nowhere else to be today. He fed her, gave her a change of clothes, and hasn't mentioned their sleeping arrangements once despite being well within his rights to do so. The least she can do is watch Dirty Harry with him in peace.

And if she happens to enjoy herself in the process, well, that's just the luck of the draw.


	4. When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But walking into his partner’s home and seeing Sharon Raydor sitting in the single armchair, dressed in track pants and an oversized LAPD teeshirt, laughing as popcorn gets thrown in her face; her hair still wet and her feet bare, complete with bright red toenails. That is one sight that nearly knocks him clear on his ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mental image of this chapter was too good pass up. This one’s shorter, but the next will be back to the verbose length of the first.
> 
> Enjoy!

**When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,**

There are many scenarios that he has prepared for over the years; many crime scenes he's walked in on, and many more still that he's had nightmares over. You don't get to his age as a cop without a truckload of experience in strange occurrences, after all. And more than just his job, his family tree looks like a toddler's drawing; five marriages, children, step-children, all the various next generations that he lost track of in the eighties… life is chaos; expecting anything less is tantamount to failure.

But walking into his partner's home and seeing Sharon Raydor sitting in the single armchair, dressed in track pants and an oversized LAPD teeshirt, laughing as popcorn gets thrown in her face; her hair still wet and her feet bare, complete with bright red toenails. That is one sight that nearly knocks him clear on his ass.

He should have known the car on the street was hers after all.

Andy's innocent  _just let yourself in_  had seemed so innocuous when he knocked on the door and then used the hidden key from under the garden rock; he never expected to walk in on this sight. And part of him feels guilty – he has obviously intruded on a deeply personal moment; a rare sight of freedom and joviality that doesn't come easy to their Captain.

But even so. Giggling like school children in the middle of a food fight. It's enough to incite the gag reflex.

Her laughter dies down when she sees the look on Provenza's face, but her eyes still shine with mirth, no doubt in response to the slack-jawed wide-eyed expression he's sporting. Her toes wiggle where they're resting on the edge of the coffee table (a table he's been yelled at for 'muddying' with his own feet, he might add) in a fashion that, dare he say, could be called cheeky.

Andy either doesn't notice his partner's flustered state, or else just doesn't care. He looks over the back of the two seater couch and smiles in welcome, mouth still chomping on popcorn kernels. He is in an equal state of disarray, his hair betraying the fact he has not indulged in a shower himself; it sticks up in every direction with his cowlick. His clothes look slept-in and house-grubby, like he picked them off the floor of his bedroom at five in the morning (which, upon reflection, he probably did).

"Whatcha doin' here?" asks Andy. It's not like Provenza to squander a day off, especially an unexpected one, and they have no game plans together or a recording to watch.

"I could ask her the same thing" he blusters, gesturing towards Sharon. Her presence is still confusing him; the fact that she's obviously made herself at home on his partner's couch even more so. For his comment she just arches a single eyebrow and purses her lips. He thinks she might still be laughing at him, but he can't be sure; he doesn't know how to read her when she's wearing… that.

"Roof repairs" answers Andy for her, without further explanation. He turns back to Sharon and lightly tosses another popcorn kernel at her, but it's obvious that the game has lost its hilarity – she smiles at Andy and bats it away, but she's more reserved now. Andy's shoulders sag a little, but he expected that; it was only fun when nobody was watching – when nobody was judging every look and gesture.

"I'm going to go make more tea" she says, rising from her seat and tugging her shirt straight. It swims over her figure; it's obviously not hers, and that just makes him more irate. How dare she walk around his partner's place in his partner's clothes without so much as an apology. What kind of game is she playing.

"Would you like some, Lieutenant?" she asks him. She knows full well that he doesn't drink that swill, and she isn't surprised when he scrunches his nose and shakes his head. She nods at him – arches a brow at Andy who shakes his head in the negative – and then turns and walks into the kitchen. Her mannerisms almost seem sheepish, if she is capable of such a thing; certainly Provenza knows she's not as comfortable now that he has shown up. Part of him feels sorry for that, after all, he didn't handle this surprise very well. And though he wouldn't say it's a pleasant surprise, he likes her well enough these days not to call it an unpleasant surprise either.

He chances a look down the hallway. The door of the spare room is directly at the end, still ajar from last night, and through the crack Provenza can see the edge of the mattress; bare and decidedly unmade, leaning against the wall. With eyes wide and horror in his expression, his gaze flickers to Andy's bedroom door, next along the hall, then back to the spare room, and then to the back of his partner's head.

He rounds the couch quickly, getting Andy's attention off the television as he hisses, "She didn't sleep  _here_ last night?"

Andy looks at him like he's daft, and perhaps he just might be. After all, what other possible explanation could there be for imagining – considering, even  _entertaining the thought_  – that the two of them slept in the same bed last night. It's ludicrous. It almost sends him into a conniption; every stupid thing his friend has ever done pales in comparison (well… perhaps not  _everything_. It's a long list, after all. But the point stands; this is  _up there_.)

"Where else do you think she slept?" asks Andy, his eyes flicking with warning towards the kitchen and back. He obviously doesn't want her to overhear their little tiff. "What part of  _getting her roof fixed_  makes you think she slept at home when you finally pushed her out the office door at three in the morning?"

Provenza's look of horror morphs into something truly disgusted. "Please tell me you slept on the couch" he says, mindful not to raise his voice, his hand flicking limply towards Andy, his state of undress, and the dent his body has made in the couch cushions (not a blanket or pillow in sight). He lessens the force of his words, and their volume; for all he wants to get to the bottom of Andy's stupidity, he has no desire to truly hurt Sharon, and his inquisition would only incite true mortification.

"Are you kidding? I got home at dawn" says Andy in return; equally disgusted at the suggestion that he would murder his back in such a fashion by spending his precious unconscious hours fighting with the springs in his sofa. They both know that the only cure for an all-nighter is a decent sleep in a comfy bed.

As Provenza turns a delectable shade of plum, Andy rolls his eyes, dismissing him. "Don't worry, we had a pillow fort between us and everything" he says with an exaggerated expression and a dopey voice. It's not true, of course – memories of watching her sleep for those few quiet moments, just inches away from his arm, flit through his mind at a rapid pace. The depth of her breath in solid sleep, the curl of her hair on the pillow, the fact that she pilfered his clothes; all of it is still too raw to ignore, but also quite far away after spending half the day together.

Provenza's eyes narrow, and he takes a moment to truly peruse his partner's face; gaze piercing and honest. "Just watch yourself" he warns. His tone carries a heavy meaning, which Andy wants to ignore but can't. He's right; it's a dangerous line to dance around. Not that pursuing personal feelings is off limits in their positions, but to allow themselves to cross lines when they have never spoken about their friendship; about the boundaries they expect, or the possibility for more. No, Provenza has a point. He wouldn't hurt Sharon by blindsiding her with that kind of intimacy. He is already skirting a fine line with his family, allowing them to believe something that isn't strictly true. And the guilt of that – the selfishness of using Sharon that way – is already weighing heavily on his heart, so he won't add to it, even accidentally.

Sharon walks back into the living room then, tea mug in hand, eyeing them like she knows she has been the topic of conversation and is faintly amused by it; she must have regained her equilibrium while making her tea in the kitchen. That's often the case with her, Andy has noticed – a mundane activity can bring her back from the brink of discomfort; a silent word to herself ( _For goodness' sake, Sharon, you're a grown woman, act like it_ ) can shake her lack of confidence away like water off a duck's back. She isn't upset that Provenza is here – for all his curmudgeonly ways she genuinely likes his company. And he and Andy are like a packaged deal, so there's always that to consider.

But she wonders what he must be thinking of her state of undress and her lingering presence here at Andy's place. He must know she spent the night and that she has no intent to leave any time soon. Her excuse will hold up to scrutiny, but her dignity may not; being interrupted in the middle of a childish food fight with a subordinate is hardly fitting of her rank, day off or not.

She has to remind herself, as she's done many times recently, that she is now one of them, and that they value her in a way they wouldn't have five years ago, and that she needn't worry anymore about them drawing ridiculous stick figures on the white board (at least not without her knowledge. These days she might just draw them herself, to get a laugh from them all and share  _no hard feelings._  These days she could trust them with that, and it warms her heart to feel so confident in their loyalty).

"Was there a ball game you wanted to watch, Lieutenant?" she asks kindly, gesturing her head to the television. She knows there isn't, or else Andy would already be watching it, but she figures it's not a hardship to offer him the olive branch.

"No, I was just going to harass this idiot for the day because I've got nothing better to do" he says, waving off Andy's offering of the remote and scowling at him for good measure. "But if the two of you are having a pyjama day on the couch, I won't stay"

"You're welcome to join us" she says, fighting to hide her amusement as he gives her a scandalised look. She honestly doesn't mind if he does; she's only killing time with a friend anyway, no plans or errands to run. She figures they're all a bit lost this afternoon, half a day gone catching up on sleep and the other half banned from the office.

"I have some nice rocket ship pyjamas you could borrow" adds Andy with a smirk.

Provenza looks between the two of them in horror – they are as bad as each other! – and then scoffs and huffs and eventually rounds the couch and plonks himself next to his partner, stealing a handful of popcorn from the bowl as he goes, making himself comfortable.

"Just for that, you  _do_ have to put up with me today"

The sound of Sharon's laughter rings out before she stifles it and covers her mouth, trying not to fuel his indignation too much. She retakes her seat in the armchair and pointedly ignores the filthy look Andy shoots at her for daring to be amused by his suffering.

"You missed Dirty Harry" she says, taking a sip of her tea, testing the temperature and deciding it's okay to start drinking. She pulls her feet up under her, curling right back into the cushions, and looks at the two of them with a funny look on her face. She looks positively domestic.

"That windbag" mumbles Provenza, rolling his eyes. "I left to go do my grocery shopping when it came on earlier"

"Your grocery shopping, consisting of TV dinners and hot dogs?" says Andy.

Provenza rounds a look at him and says, "Do I judge your life?"

"All the time"

The both of them studiously ignore the undignified snort that comes from across the coffee table, instead turning back to the television. Andy gives Sharon a look, rolling his eyes. She shakes her head lightly at him with a smile, amused by the two of them and not at all taking sides. As much as she was disappointed by the interruption – or at least taken aback by it – she doesn't mind in the least, watching the two of them grouch at each other. At least this time it won't affect the efficiency of a case or give her a headache in the process.

And after all, when spending a lazy day with friends, the more the merrier.

She sees Andy offer her the popcorn from the corner of her eye, and she takes a handful from the bowl and places it in her lap, picking at it slowly. She misses the little grin he gives her. Provenza ignores the two of them and turns the television up a couple of notches, watching re-runs of  _M*A*S*H_  that have been on a thousand times before.

It's a little awkward, the three of them trying to consciously unwind and be fine with the odd trio of company. But it's a little bit nice too. They are the parents of the squad, no doubt – the ones that have been in the job the longest, Tao not far behind them. The ones whose conduct, for better or worse, is expected to set the example for the ranks who follow; officers look to them for guidance and leadership. It is good that they can get along like this, to show solidarity and be rid of the ridiculous little power plays that occurred in the early days of her transition.

In only a few short minutes they are all unperturbed, and simple conversation begins; benign enquiries about their various children and, in the case of the men, their grandchildren (though of course Provenza makes sure to tease that she won't be far behind them in becoming a grandparent. She studiously ignores him, and any implication that she is, in fact, old enough to be one).

Without even realising it they have talked another hour away. The light outside is becoming dimmer as the sun starts setting in the late afternoon; the chill of evening air settling in the house so that they all relax deeper into their seats seeking warmth and comfort. The three of them look set to stay right where they are for at least another hour yet. None of them particularly mind. In fact, it's rather lovely.


	5. Must give us peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She doesn’t particularly want to go. She’s not sure if there’s a deeper meaning to that feeling or if it’s merely to be expected after spending days together, working, sleeping, eating… everything that isn’t too intimate for a Captain and her subordinate to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay. Ellie finally gets around to finishing this fic! Last chapter, let me know what you think, and as always thank you for reading.

**_Must give us peace_ **

She watches from the couch as Provenza walks to the door, throwing a lazy wave behind him in her general direction when she wishes him a good night. Though he wouldn’t usually bother, Andy gets up and follows him to walk him out, and a feeling of remorse washes over her. It’s dark, nearing on dinner time, and there’s little reason for her to linger much longer, especially since Provenza has done the honours of leaving first. The polite thing would be to follow his lead and excuse herself, wishing Andy a good evening and thanking him for his hospitality.

She doesn’t particularly want to go. She’s not sure if there’s a deeper meaning to that feeling or if it’s merely to be expected after spending days together, working, sleeping, eating… everything that isn’t too intimate for a Captain and her subordinate to do. (She’s not sure where the line is drawn regarding intimacy anymore. Sharing a bed? Cooking together? Showering, albeit not together…? It’s all become blurred in the fog and confusion of a tough case, a late night, the company of someone trusted and close. It’s dangerous and yet so comforting.)

She makes sure to shake herself out of her stupor before Andy turns back around and makes his way over to the couch again.

“And then there were two” he says.

She hums. “I should really be going as well” she starts, ignoring the way his face falls in disappointment. Her body language negates her words; she doesn’t make any gesture to move from her place. “The workmen will be gone by now. I best go and open some windows to air my place out, assess the damage”

It’s not a thin excuse – she hasn’t been home in days, Rusty has been fending for himself, and she does want to check on the progress of her roof. These are all important things to contend with; she just finds the prospect of the real world daunting after being holed away from it in his living room all day. There was a certain lack of reality in their day – never once stepping outside, spending time together in a way they never have before, even the first moments in the morning waking up next to him. None of it feels real as she thinks back over it, and she knows it’s the combination of sleep deprivation and new experiences, but the prospect of breaking the spell and returning home to sleep in her own bed and return to work again as per her usual routine… she doesn’t know why it makes her sad, but it does a little bit.

“Will you stay for dinner at least?” he asks. His eyes look hopeful, not suggestive but more like a child hoping to stay up just one more ad-break past their bedtime.

She holds his gaze for a long moment, her mind whirring, until without thought she gives a small smile, and a faint _fine_. Almost immediately she corrects herself, belatedly adding, “Yes please, that would be lovely”.

She gets up to follow him into the kitchen and they split off, her to look in the fridge again and him to look in the cupboard. There’s left-over pasta from lunch, but neither of them suggest heating it up; it goes unsaid that they would prefer something else for dinner. Maybe something less… carb-y. With actual nutritional value. She opens the crisper in the fridge and lifts a dead bag of lettuce out to find half an onion, a sad stalk of broccoli, two carrots, a handful of beans in a plastic supermarket bag, and something she thinks was a turnip in a previous life. It’s enough to make… something. Certainly something roasted or boiled, but definitely not steamed. The wilting veggies won’t stand up to it. None of them have had time to go shopping lately, so she tries not to judge.

“I’ve got veggies” she says, a look on her face caught somewhere between horror and curiosity. “Kind of”

He pokes his head out of the pantry and holds up a container of powdered stock, a half bag of mixed lentils and a large lone potato. “Sad soup?” he asks.

She nods enthusiastically, pleased that they can boil the pathetic looking beans to smithereens before eating them. She’s not the world’s best cook, even though she does enjoy it, but even she can see that these vegetables are a day away from the bin without some serious intervention.

“Might as well get our three serves of veggies in one hit” he mumbles, placing the ingredients on the bench while he looks for a pot. She makes herself busy collecting the remaining items from the fridge while he half fills the pot with water from the kettle. He lights the stove and sets the pot on the heat, then dishes out a decent amount of stock and lentils into it and stirs. She watches as he opens the small cupboard above the stove and takes out the salt and pepper, and then a selection of herbs she can’t read the names of.

She has always found it sexy when a man knows his way around the kitchen, and it takes all her willpower not say anything as she watches him for a moment, dishing out just the right amount of chopped leaves to make the soup his own. She knows, without a doubt, that she needs to leave right after dinner lest her mouth run ahead of her.

He leaves the lentils to boil for a bit to soften down on their own. Meanwhile she takes the veggies and washes them. This time around they share the preparation much more than he allowed at lunch; she peels the carrots and potato into the sink while he chops everything and throws it into the pot unceremoniously. She cleans up the bench as she goes, and he uses the large wooden spoon to taste test, adding one more pinch of salt before he leaves it to simmer lightly with the lid on, cracked just a little bit. They’ll leave it to boil down and thicken.

“Anything else?” she asks.

“I’ve got some macaroni in the cupboard that I’ll add just before it’s done… give it some _oomph_ ”

She nods her agreement and leans back against the bench again. He mirrors her stance against his cupboard door with a smile.

It’s around this time that she would ordinarily poor herself a glass of wine and go put on some relaxing music – maybe some Tchaikovsky from one of the ballet’s, or a collection of Chopin. But she knows that (for good reason) she won’t find wine in Andy’s house, and she doubts very much that he has any kind of classical music collection. Classic _hits_ , maybe – she knows he’s especially fond of soft rock – but piano sonatas aren’t really his thing, and she gets that; they weren’t her thing either until childhood ballet classes demanded she get used to it.

“I’ve enjoyed today” he says to her, his tone soft but undemanding.

She smiles at him, fighting a blush. “Me too” she says quietly back, trying not to make too much of it.

He must notice her disquiet because he offers her a drink from the fridge – _juice or soda? ­_ \- and she accepts a juice just for the sugar hit, the exhaustion of the previous work day catching up to her the longer she goes without sleep. The darkness ushers forward a weariness, which is one more good reason to get home quickly after dinner; the last thing she needs is to fall asleep at the wheel and run off the road.

“We should do it again some time” he says.

With his back to her and his head buried in the fridge she can’t analyse him; can get a read on what he means. This was a very specific set of circumstances; not necessarily something she would want to repeat if given the choice. Yet his house has been open and warm to her since the night before, and despite her tiredness she feels somewhat rested. She doesn’t doubt the joy of his company; but to how to have it again, and for so long, without giving up ground to the thoughts in her head that she cannot afford to entertain.

She must stay quiet a breath too long, because he turns around with a large juice carton in his hand. “The movie day, I mean” he says, elaborating on a questions she wasn’t even sure she was asking.

He gives a look she can’t decipher – awkwardness maybe? Or self-consciousness? – and collects her a glass, pouring a decent amount for her drink. She accepts it with a soft _thank you_.

She waits a beat, watching him place the juice carton on the bench.

“It’s such a rare opportunity” she says, shrugging. Neither of them can work out if that’s an invitation to do it again or an excuse not to; she doesn’t dwell. She hides behind her glass as she takes a long sip of her drink. Andy seems to get the hint and turns away, collecting a glass and filling it for himself before returning the carton to the fridge.

“I’m gonna go put the news on” he announces, fiddling with the gas nozzle of the stove a little to lower the simmering temperature. “See what’s been happening in the world while we’ve been ignoring it”

 _Depressing things, no doubt_ , she thinks, but holds her tongue. The distraction will be welcome, and at the very least they can check tomorrow’s weather. “Good idea” she says instead, and follows him with drink in hand to the lounge again, taking up their usual places. It’s bizarre and entirely too natural that they don’t question it – don’t wait for each other to sit before they claim their places. _Normal human behaviour_ , chides a disapproving voice in her head. But she’s too aware of herself for that to be the case.

They watch the news in relative silence, Andy pitching in with _that dirtbag_ or _what scum_ whenever a crime is mentioned from outside their jurisdiction. Perfunctory comments, she knows, because he doesn’t do well with sitting still and quiet for too long she has learned. She nods along, equally interested in reconnecting with the outside world in preparation of going home, even if it is in gruesome ways. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before; their whole professional lives have been dedicated to these stories; it’s almost relaxingly familiar to hear the tragic story of a young family murdered in a gang shooting on the other side of the country.

At the end of the D-block she rises from her seat to take her glass back to the kitchen. She checks in on the soup – still a bit watery, the carrots and potato not yet cooked through – and takes a spoon from the cutlery draw to check the broth. Perfect. Just the right balance of flavours, maybe could do with another pinch of salt, but given Andy’s recent heart troubles she won’t suggest it unless he does. She uses the wooden spoon to stir right along the bottom of the pot, making sure none of the lentils have stuck, sneaks another spoonful of the broth, and then replaces the lid slightly ajar as it was before. She’s suddenly very hungry, and the smell is not helping the situation.

She hears Andy come in behind her, the tell-tale sounds of ads on the television no doubt inspiring him to come and find her.

“How’s it looking?” he asks.

“Half way there. I gave it a stir”

“Need the macaroni yet?”

“Not yet”

He salutes her, then takes her empty glass and his own, abandoned on the bench earlier, and rinses them in the sink, leaving them on the rack to dry rather than bothering to put them in his dishwasher. Another quirk she can’t figure out – a tea spoon is upside down on the sink’s edge, a couple of glasses and a single bread plate in the draining rack on the side; the dishwasher is only a cabinet over, why not fill it? She’s never understood not loading it, since he obviously uses it for larger dishes; it’s as baffling to her as Rusty filling a grubby glass with warm water and leaving it to fester for two days in the sink.

 _I rinsed it_ , he would say.

Maybe it’s a boy thing, she thinks to herself, and she somehow managed to stamp it out of her eldest son with that exact mix of single parenting and an unbreakable iron will. The thought makes her suddenly proud of her son. She makes a mental note to check on him more frequently than she does, though it may annoy him. She took a step back when he finished college – made a deliberate choice to give him his freedom without an overbearing mother nagging him from half a state away. But suddenly her one phone call and occasional text a week doesn’t seem nearly enough.

Or maybe she just misses the simpler days before she ran Major Crimes, when spending days in her subordinate’s living room was unheard of, much less making soup for dinner like some ridiculous married cliché. She’s never once lived that image, she doesn’t intend to start now, and certainly not with someone who’s place in her life she can’t define; someone who sits in limbo somewhere between colleague and friend, the curiosity of ‘something more’ whispering to her from the recesses of her mind where she recognises how ridiculous it is to be having these ruminations in the middle of his kitchen.

Once again she berates herself for thinking too much on it, chalks it up to lack of sleep, and plants a smile on her face for Andy’s benefit.

“Did I miss any important news?” she asks. “Any apocalypses we missed?”

He just grins at her, surprised as always at her display of humour. Part of her wants to be offended that he thinks she doesn’t have one; mostly she’s delighted she can still surprise him.

“I feel like that would have been called in”

“Not to us. Taylor banned us from the office”

He laughs at her. “Somehow I think _end of the world_ is beyond even his pay grade. He wouldn’t have a choice. Overtime and everything, we’d be called in to stand around and wait for the paperwork to let us do anything”

She laughs, not disagreeing with his assessment of the legal process even as she stands behind it. There’s no love lost between Andy and Taylor; never has been, from what she remembers on the grapevine, much as she wasn’t always tuned into it. Still, there are some truths so universally known in the force that they penetrate even the double-brick cast-iron walls of the FID home in the Bradbury Building. Many of those truths pertain to Andy and a certain partner of his.

Sometimes she thinks that half of his surprise comes from her knowledge of him and all the baggage he has carried throughout his time in the LAPD. Baggage that happened to land right inside a certain jacket over which she presided, lest the younger less experienced officers get scared off the job by Andy’s particular interview style. Oh yes, she knows all about him, as he does her, the Wicked Witch, stone cold bitch, or whatever other nickname people lovingly bestowed upon her throughout her tenure.

They have history.

She looks at the man in front of her now and wonders at how much he has mellowed over recent years. The bravado and cheekiness remains, but gone is the open contempt and hostility; the charm he wore more as a defence than any genuine attempt to woo someone has softened into a casual flirting. The Andy of old was angry, short-fused, probably recited his twelve steps every morning and another half dozen times through the day too.

This Andy gets nervous about attending his own daughter’s wedding. Gets to watch his grandsons dance on stage. Cooks her not one but two meals without question.

She likes this Andy.

More than even she realised just a day ago.

And once again she has managed to pinpoint for herself the exact crux of her ponderings.

She goes and sits into the living room again, leaving him to check to soup or follow her at his own leisure. He does both.

A half hour later they get up again to check the soup, and he turns the heat down and gives it a stir while adding some macaroni. They hang around the kitchen, not really talking, but not ignoring each other either; waiting the ten minutes or so it will take for the noodles to cook. She gets herself another small glass of juice without asking, and he watches with a look on his face that she thinks is bemusement but looks a little too fond to be sardonic.

He uses the wooden spoon to taste test a macaroni, huffing between his teeth when the broth is too hot – she almost laughs at him, and at his little _oh hot hot hot_. He ignores her, instead turning the stove off. She collects two bowls, holds them up as he dishes the food, grabs two clean spoons, and leaves his soup on the benchtop for him to collect as she makes her way into the living room to sit.

The evening news has given way to a new episode of some procedural she doesn’t watch. She nearly burns her tongue as well when she takes the first mouthful, but carries it off with a little more dignity.

“How is it?” he asks, making his way to his seat with dinner in hand.

She nods, her mouth still full.

“For sad soup”

She grins at him and he smiles back.

The urge to leave has subsided again, and the feeling of comfort penetrates her skin like a warm blanket being placed over her. She goes back to her dinner, dutifully ignoring the little flutter in her stomach at the thought of going home again. She runs through a to-do list of house chores to complete to distract herself instead, and doesn’t notice when Andy switches the program over.

“This is nice” she says quietly, looking down into her bowl and stirring her spoon around a couple of times to cool the edges.

“Yeah. It is” he replies.

She looks up at him and catches his eye. She thinks they’re both talking about more than just the sad soup, but neither of them say anything more. Perhaps nothing else needs to be said, she thinks, or maybe they just don’t know what to say – she can barely get her thoughts in order let alone say them out loud.

In any case, by her estimations she has less than an hour before she’ll be home again, and this evening is proving to be the perfect ending to a strange day. She lets the quiet of the moment and the warmth of the soup and the pleasure of his company wash over her, and somewhere inside a peace falls into place where she hasn’t felt it before. It feels like something known but long forgotten; like the innocence she hasn’t acknowledged since childhood.

It feels like possibility.

_Fin._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, I did steal ‘fine’ from canon, but only because I think in that moment it’s an echo to an earlier unseen moment, and I just freakin’ love parallels okay. Also, this story was always very deliberately written as pre-ship, so sorry for anyone expecting mushy kisses but I thrive on angst and awkwardness and I’m not even sorry about it.   
> Reviews always welcomed, thanks again for reading.


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